I had the pleasure of recently getting to spend part of the afternoon with the owner of Wild West Weaving, over in New Mexico, working with yarn dyed by local plants and seeing the process go from a pile of wool to a finished piece of cloth. It was really fun to see how the threads of a piece of fabric sit loosely until the machines shift and every thread is locked into it’s proper place. As the user’s hands pass back and forth, the fabric seems to just grow out of thin air. No wonder weaving was viewed as magical in years long ago.
Which, of course, pairs right along with this week’s Five Sentence Fiction prompt. I don’t know where the picture was taken, but it would be great fun to sit and work with them for an afternoon and get to know the weaver.
Strong and confident hands, browned by years of sun, pass the shuttle back and forth on the loom. The threads steadily turn from loose yarn into a tight pattern of color with every pass, sometimes geometric, and sometimes abstract. Even after all these years, the lifetime of weaving, the threads still snarl at times, leaving tiny knots in the smooth tapestry. A soccer ball sails across the yard, errantly launched at a goal made of bushes, knocking into the weaver and causing several threads to snarl together. “Child, look what you’ve done, causing a very bad day for the poor boy that ends up with this life.” scolds the Fate while resuming the steady rhythm of eternal weaving.